


careless sunlight in her eyes, petals in her hair

by Dialux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bed-sharing, F/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: “We’re doing fine, aren’t we, sweetling?” She chucks Lyessa under her head and grins at him before explaining. “Robb got a call from his boss- the guy in charge of the Australian field office got in a really bad car accident, so Robb had to go. And you know Jeyne’s on her vapasana thing, so he needed someone to take Lyessa for some time.”[Modern AU, with mutual pining, bed sharing, accountant!Sansa and scientist!Jon and Robb’s really really REALLY cute baby.]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riahchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahchan/gifts).



> Written for a prompt on tumblr, requesting JonxSansa and accidental baby acquisition. Prompts are still open right now, too!

This job’s tiring, is what it is.

Or, not exactly; but Jon’s got this really important paper whose deadline’s in less than two weeks, and if he doesn’t get this grant money, he’s well and truly screwed. And by screwed he means fired, because nobody’s going to throw money at a thirty-year old nephrologist who didn’t have the brains to get an MD along with his doctorate all those years ago, not if he doesn’t generate some income on his own.

Sansa is just as busy- she’s working almost fifteen hour days in her firm, trying to meet the April fifteenth tax deadline. Jon’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen her in almost a week, and that’s despite living together.

Living together.  _ Not  _ sleeping together, as all their friends, family, and- maybe- strangers on the street seem to assume. 

(It’s all Jon’s fault,  _ he knows,  _ okay? But it isn’t as if he can control his eyes. Nobody should have legs that long, or hair that bright, or eyes that blue, or-

The  _ point  _ is that Jon stares, sometimes, and, okay, there was that one time when his jaw dropped but that was because Sansa looked stunning in that dress, and  _ fine,  _ he’ll admit that he tends to laugh more when she’s around, but really, apart from all that he’s as inscrutable as a steel safebox.)

But this whole arrangement is Sansa’s idea, and she only suggested it in the first place because his apartment’s a few blocks from her office, while her parents’ home is practically across the city. Jon can keep his head and not say anything that’ll make her uncomfortable. He  _ can,  _ he’s sure of it.

Until, that is, she brings a baby home.

It’s Robb’s- which, you know, makes the whole situation worse, because little Lyessa has Robb’s hair, and that’s the  _ exact  _ color of Sansa’s hair, and for just a heartbeat, staring at the two of them cuddling on the couch, Jon’s sure that Sansa’s hidden a baby from all of them for, like, three years, or however old the baby is. It isn’t as if he’s an expert at judging babies’ age from their size.

Then he recognizes Lyessa, and the relief that crashes through him is as surprising as the yearning that came before.

“Hey,” he says- croaks, really, but Jon’s voice is low enough that Sansa probably didn’t hear that. “What’s going on?”

“Hey to you too,” Sansa chirps, taking Lyessa’s chubby fist and waving it at him. “We’re doing fine, aren’t we, sweetling?” She chucks Lyessa under her head and grins at him before explaining. “Robb got a call from his boss- the guy in charge of the Australian field office got in a really bad car accident, so Robb had to go. And you know Jeyne’s on her  _ vapasana  _ thing, so he needed someone to take Lyessa for some time.”

“You’ve barely been home for two weeks,” Jon points out dryly, hanging up his bag and coat as he steps further inside the room. “You sure you’re the best person for the job?”

“I’ve got a week off,” Sansa tells him smugly. At his frown, she rolls her eyes. “It’s April sixteenth, idiot.”

April sixteenth. Sansa’s just finished her deadline. Jon blinks and slumps over the couch, jostling Lyessa and making her giggle.

“You agreed?”

“I didn’t think you’d feel too bad. I’ll be taking care of her, and-” Sansa switches gears smoothly, shifting Lyessa so she’s sitting facing her, crossing her eyes to make the little girl laugh. “And I’ve got enough leave to take another week off,” she finishes.

Jon lifts his eyebrows. 

“I don’t have a problem with it,” he says finally.

…

That, as it turns out, is a lie. 

A big, fat, stinking lie. 

Lyessa almost sticks her fingers into the electrical sockets three times before Sansa begs him to go get the child-proof covers for them. That, of itself, isn’t too difficult- no, the problem is trying to remove the shitty plastic covers. Jon breaks four of them, rendering those sockets useless. This means that he can’t type up his papers at the dining table, because he can’t charge his computer and there’s no fucking way in hell he’ll voluntarily relocate when the battery gets low.

Jon curses under his breath and resigns himself to typing on his bed, which means back aches from hunching over. He’s not twenty anymore, and more’s the pity.

…

On the second morning of Lyessa’s stay, pigeons shit all over their balcony.

It’s because of surprise rainfall the previous night, which forced the pigeons under cover. And, really, though they try to share the house, they each have different areas which are their responsibility- Sansa’s is the kitchen, where she’s pretty much cleaned out all the plastic plates he lived on before she came; Jon’s, surprising though it may sound, is the balcony.

It might have something to do with the aloe plant his mother gave him when he got his master’s, but he hasn’t been fired from a job since and Jon isn’t obstinate enough- or confident enough in his agnosticism- to chuck the plant away. More than seven years later, the plant is almost as big as his torso and requires a  _ lot  _ of care. 

The point is that Jon spends a great deal of time taking care of this aloe plant, which means spending a lot of time on the balcony where the plant is, and he  _ really  _ hates having guano sticking to his bare feet when he goes to give the aloe its morning water.

He curses, then, loudly and fluently, because  _ fuck it  _ he’s sleep-deprived and hasn’t had coffee and really just wants to drive a spear through the next person to talk to him about renal physiology-

“Fuck,” giggles a voice, closer to his feet than his ear. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Jon stills, dread seizing him, and looks down. There, one hand smeared white, looking up at him with big, china-blue eyes, Lyessa looks back.

Her mouth opens, and Jon grabs her guano-smeared hand before she can stuff it inside, hoisting her up onto his waist. He tries not to wince at the feel of sticky feet dragging over his shirt.

“Fuck,” she says, again, and Jon tries really,  _ really  _ hard not to hyperventilate.

“Hey Lya,” he mutters, taking her to the kitchen sink to scrub her hands and feet and whatever else that needs to be done. “Could you do me a favor, sweetling, and never say that word again? I don’t need Robb on my ass, you know?”

Slowly, solemnly, she nods. Jon allows himself to smile at her, one hand bracing her in the sink and the other searching for a towel to dry her off, when she smiles back, all pearl-toothed innocent. 

“Ass,” she says, and Jon chokes.

…

Sansa laughs her head off when she hears what happened, though she at least has the courtesy to do so when Lyessa’s asleep.

Jon stomps into his bedroom, shuts the door-  _ gently,  _ because Lyessa’s asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her up after Sansa’s spent almost forty minutes trying to get her to sleep- and even as he types up the first draft of his paper, he tries not to remember the flush of warmth that accompanied Sansa’s laugh.

…

The next night, Jon’s woken up by a tiny hand pushing at his arm.

His reaction is…  _ okay,  _ see, there are things that need to be established before explaining Jon’s reaction, like the fact that Jon tends to have very vivid dreams. 

Or that he tends to be a deep sleeper. He’s also really unused to people waking him up in the night; the last real relationship he had was Ygritte, and that ended way back in his undergrad. He’s also never lived in a house with a however-old toddler.

It really isn’t his fault that his first thought upon feeling a small, fat-fingered hand on his forearm is  _ monkey,  _ or that the second is  _ did I get drunk at a zoo,  _ or that the third is  _ who shoved me into a monkey cage.  _ It’s Robb’s fault for getting called away, and Sansa’s fault for taking his baby, and Lyessa’s fault for having monkey-hands. 

He really isn’t proud of the short scream that comes from his throat, or how he scrambles away from her, or the thud of probably seven different research texts falling to the floor- that were maybe kinda important.

“What,” he pants, “what are you doing?”

“Sleep,” Lyessa says.

_ “Yes,”  _ Jon says. “Yes, Lyessa, sleep. It’s what I was doing. Why aren’t you?”

“Sleep,” she repeats, and crawls onto the bed, in the depression where Jon was just asleep. Lyessa looks up at him, baby-blue eyes and china-doll skin and  _ cuter than anything.  _ “Please?”

Jon stifles a groan, because he’d forgotten: Lyessa always sleeps with one of her parents, but thus far she’s been sleeping in a crib in Sansa’s room, by herself. Though why she’s here and not with Sansa isn’t really understandable.

“Yes,” he says finally, “Yes, fine, you can sleep here. Only for tonight, yeah?”

Lyessa doesn’t answer, only snuggles closer to him. Jon sighs. He slowly lies down, eyes drifting shut. There’s a textbook digging into his spine and his laptop’s screen is probably broken, but he’s too tired. Before he knows it, he’s asleep.

…

He wakes up to a shutter clicking.

Sansa’s leaning over him, her braid slipping over her shoulder and coiling over his chest, phone held out in front of her. Jon fights not to huff morning breath at her face. It takes an amount of self control- an amount he didn’t know he  _ had,  _ to be perfectly honest- not to flinch.

“This,” she says lowly, “is quite possibly the most ridiculously adorable thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen Rickon as a baby.”

He shifts, just a little, and feels the weight across his chest: Lyessa’s moved during the night and is now splayed across him instead of lying on her pillow like a normal person. 

If there is such a normality for babies. 

There’s a thick stream of drool running down one of his ribs, one tiny ear pressed right above his heart, and a foot digging into his stomach.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“Searching,” Sansa tells him, settling on the bed. “Her crib was empty. I wanted to know where she was- and then, you know, I found her. Asleep. Here.” Something darkens in her eyes, though her tone remains light. “I had to take photos. Evidence or it didn’t happen, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jon rasps. 

He sighs and rolls, trying to tip Lyessa onto the bed, but she tightens her grasp on his shirt instead, nails piercing his skin. Jon hisses, and then slowly detaches himself, keeping care to make sure she doesn’t wake up. When he turns around, Sansa’s at the door. 

Jon tries very hard not to let any disappointment at the sudden distance show.

“I’m going for a run,” she says. “You’ve got to get in for work today?”

It’s a Sunday, and any normal human being would be resting. Jon scrubs a hand through his hair. 

“It’s just this paper,” he says. “If I get it, I’ll have funding for almost four years. And-”

“-I understand,” Sansa says, lips tipping up. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, I’ve left some toast on the table.”

“Sansa,” Jon sighs.

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Don’t worry about it,” she repeats, and leaves.

…

The night he submits the paper, Jon returns home and kicks off his shoes, heading straight to his room. He’s tired enough to feel dizzy; sleep is tugging at his fingertips. 

When he enters his room, he sees that Lyessa is curled up on one of his pillows almost like a kitten, snoring gently. Jon sighs and scoops her up, shouldering open Sansa’s door and trying to put her into the crib.

“Jon?” Sansa asks groggily, pushing herself up onto her elbows. 

“Sleep,” he mutters, still trying to get Lyessa into the crib quietly. “Jus’ got home. Now if-”

There are soft, padding sounds, and then Sansa’s beside him; she presses her hand to his shoulder and gently takes Lyessa herself, holding her away from her warmth and sliding her into the crib. She turns to him and her face shifts from faint amusement to worry when she truly looks at him.

“You okay?”

“Just tired.” He draws a hand over his face. “I think-”

“-you need sleep,” Sansa says, eyes warm and kind. “Come on.” 

…

Jon wakes up slowly.

He’s warm, that’s the first thing he realizes; the second is that he isn’t under any covers, which means that he either fell straight on top of his bed and lost consciousness- or that he isn’t in his bed. He shifts, eyes still unwilling to open, and goes painfully immobile when he feels another person’s body  _ right there. _

“Wha’ the-” Jon’s eyes flicker open, surprise startling him awake, and he gets an eyeful of bright red hair. 

His heart thumps, hard, and Jon flexes his muscles, going through a slow body-check to ensure that, you know, he isn’t dreaming. Eyebrows work fine; his tongue can taste that sprig of cilantro that’s been stuck between his molars for almost two days; his toes dig into a soft blanket that’s too woolly for it to belong to his room.

His hands flex, then, and Jon digs further into the curve of Sansa’s waist. She sighs, snuggling closer to him. He feels all the blood drain away from the upper half of his body, so fast it leaves him dizzy.

He’s asleep in  _ Sansa’s  _ bed. He’s asleep in Sansa’s  _ bed.  _ He’s  _ asleep  _ in Sansa’s bed.

What the fuck.

“Mmm, Jon?” Slowly, Sansa turns, eyes heavy and sleep-lidded, closer than she’s ever been before. Jon takes a break from panicking to admire her. “Wha’ ‘s goin’ on?”

“I,” he says, swallowing.

She frowns. “What?”

“You let me sleep here.”

“Well,” Sansa says, looking more awake, “yes.”

“Why?”

“You looked tired.”

“My bedroom is literally ten feet away.”

She stretches, cracking her bones lazily, and Jon struggles not to gulp at the slide of her body against his. 

“I know,” she says. “But I wanted you here.”

Jon stares at her for a minute, trying to understand what she’s just said. Then he lets his eyes drift shut, forehead dropping to her collarbone. 

“I’ve been an idiot,” he says, muffled into her skin.

Sansa laughs, the noise high and vibrating pleasantly against Jon’s cheek and mouth. “Yes,” she says, “But then, so have I.”

He grins, propping himself up onto on elbow to better capture her lips, and Sansa loops her arms over his neck, arching to meet him. He hovers over her, just about to kiss Sansa after  _ years- _

“Unc’a!” 

They don’t move for a long moment, and then Jon groans, rolling away from Sansa to glare up at the ceiling. Sansa lets out a laugh that sounds more incredulous than anything, but when he looks over, she’s not moved at all, flat on her own back.

“I’m going to fucking  _ kill him,”  _ Jon hisses.

“Fuckin’!” Lyessa says, bouncing in that damnable crib. “Fuckin’!”

“I’m not handling that,” Sansa tells him flatly. “Once was enough.”

_ If I bang my head hard enough, can I make myself pass out? _

“Four years,” he snaps. “I work up the nerve after four years, and his  _ daughter  _ cockbl-”

“Unless you want Jeyne to cut your heart out with one of her silver ceremonial knives and store it in one of her pretty ceramic urns, you’ll shut up,” Sansa says, looking straight up at the ceiling. Jon’s pretty sure her lips are twitching, but she’s got a really good poker face. “Before you teach her more- mm, adult vocabulary, if you know what I mean.” 

“Seems to be the only thing she learns,” Jon grumbles, but stands nonetheless to take Lyessa to the bathroom.

Sansa calls after him just before Jon shuts the door. “Four years, Jon?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, but he’s too cheerful to sound properly irritable.

…

They drop Lyessa off to Robb and Jeyne together, but Jon barely pays attention, because it’s been  _ four years  _ and he deserves to kiss Sansa properly, dammit, without three-year olds giggling in his face the whole way.

Sansa laughs, loud and free, when they enter the car.

Jon slides into his seat and doesn’t bother turning on the engine or doing anything, really, until Sansa sits down, and after that most of his attention’s less on everything that isn’t Sansa’s soft hair or softer skin or even softer lips and more on- well-  _ Sansa. _

…

Maybe, when Lyessa’s older, Jon’ll tell her exactly why he refuses to babysit her ever again.

(It still doesn’t stop Jeyne from going after him with a salad fork two weeks later, when the little devil screams  _ cock  _ during the family dinner and points at him when asked who taught her the word.

Sansa, the traitor, just laughs the whole time.)


End file.
